Torn between my heart and my brain.

Sometimes, when I get a little bit of time to myself, I tend to ponder about the future. I've always dreamed of writing something by myself, to let my mind wander and let my creativity freely flow to create something that could reach the deepest, hidden parts of a reader's heart, that could make them feel seen, heard and understood. I'm also painfully aware that I need a tangible paycheck to survive the next day and words on a page can't guarantee food on my plate. Well, that's what I've, and so many other artists, have been told. I do understand that there's no viability behind a dream if I don't make concrete progress nor do I wish for it to all crumble without giving it a try. Since money is the currency to all problems, the artist's soul's only way to heal is creation, but one cannot survive on its own by swallowing canvas, munching on used brushes and feed themselves on shredded, crumpled and scribbled on papers while believing some miracle might happen and save them from this misery. I've grown accustomed to this mentality, to worry more about the currency my bank account held than the paintbrush strokes on the canvases. I've been raised with the mindset that comfort came first and money was the way, the answer to all. That each step taken towards a brighter future was made with the idea that money could solve most of my problems, that having enough would bring me enough happiness to suffice an entire life, without worrying about missing out on anything. And now, with each year passing, I come with the realization that a choice is nearby, looming, waiting for me to choose a path and regret not picking the other. It feels like doomsday, asking a barely coming-out-of-age adult to make such gigantic choices without expecting a catastrophe. At this point, I would prefer to be a domesticated cat who sleeps all day than to be anywhere else, having to pick.

Just a few words to test the speech generation system.